


One Night Only

by LaCompositora



Series: One Night Only [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Classical Music, Longing, M/M, Regret, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-04-17 01:25:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14177562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaCompositora/pseuds/LaCompositora
Summary: For You, In SilenceSee Elio Perlman in concert for a one night only event at the Lincoln Center.There is no mistaking the reason behind his choice to name it this. It is both challenge and request, as so many of his words were – are. It’s a dare.Oliver POV.





	1. Chapter 1

            I recognize the scrawl of his handwriting immediately. How could I forget it? I’ve read the letters he sent all those years ago over and over again in stolen moments, nights where she went out and the boys were asleep, mornings when I was the first one awake. I know every curve of his ‘e’s and flourish on his ‘t’s. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t bother with a return address, nor any sort of greeting.

            The envelope contains a glossy piece of stiff paper, the material advertising posters are made of, folded into thirds. When I open it up, I am drawn first to the image that serves as background for the advertisement – a closeup of a high cheekbone and dark curls framing a single intensely hazel eye. He is older, but I know him all the same. Then, underneath, in the dark shadows that consume the rest of his features, the words scrawled in a perfect, curling red cursive:

_For You, In Silence_

            Beneath, in smaller text.

_See Elio Perlman in concert for a_ one night only _event at the Lincoln Center._

            The miniature poster continues, details written in progressively smaller text. I stare at it, breath caught in my throat. This must be an advance copy – I’m sure that she would have come rushing in, eyes wide, if Elio Perlman, the foremost pianist of our time, was going to have an exclusive concert here, in New York City, the moment the news was released. She works at the Lincoln Center, for gods sake… I notice that my hand is trembling and still it with an effort, taking a deep breath.

_For You, In Silence_

            My eye flies to the book on the shelf where the same words are scrawled, in his hand, the page’s edge worn where I have flipped it open again and again, and I feel a tightening in my chest. There is no mistaking the reason behind his choice to name it this. It is both challenge and request, as so many of his words were – are. It’s a dare. So is the single ticket that I pull from the envelope – _are you strong enough to come alone to the memories of the secrets we share?_

            “I don’t know,” I whisper to myself, staring at the seat assignment – the middle of the front row of the balcony, arguably the best seat in the house. There will be nowhere to hide. There will be many hundreds of people there, but it will also be just the two of us. He will walk on stage, bow, and then he will step closer to me, those hazel eyes peering up into mine, yards dissolving into feet, inches, our ankles suddenly freezing in the water that runs down from the mountains as our skin burns in the hot Italian sun, and I will -

            The door opens. Without thinking, I conceal the envelope and its contents under the table, and similarly conceal unbidden memories under piles of the now, greet her and the boys, ask about how days went, talk vapid nonsense about students and fellow faculty and public transit. Being awake is too painful to bear – I am almost grateful for the return of my induced coma.

            And yet. When the night comes, and she has fallen asleep, I sneak from bed and sit on the bathroom floor, staring at that single hazel eye which stares right back at me. _I need to speak to you_ , I hear it in his voice, see it scrawled on a note slipped under my door, but this time it lacks the youthful inflection of jubilant, nervous inexperience, replaced with the commanding firmness of that stare. _He has not lost any of his cunning to age_ , I think with a chuckle.

            The date of the concert is three months away. Three months to decide to accept or refuse his challenge. It has been years since we last spoke, a few halting words on the phone, myself in Italy and him here, in New York. Hearing his voice then had sent me into a tailspin – I cried that day, confusing her and the boys, but not Samuel and Annella, who too generously shielded me from the suspicion of my own family as I fled the house and sat alone on our rock by the sea, hoping in vain for Vimini’s tiny hand to find my own. Had he known? Did he sit alone in his apartment then, did he weep as I had wept? I had assumed not – the voice on the other end of that phone call had been cold, empty, flat. Yet now, this… perhaps he had?

            I remind myself I shouldn’t care. I have a family now, I chose that winter night in Italy to say no instead of yes, to pull away instead of stay. Whether or not Elio still thinks of me, and how he thinks of me, should be of no consequence – he is the past, a fork in the road of my life that made me who I am now, but already far behind me. And yet, as I imagine watching him sit at a concert Steinway in Lincoln Center, imagine those eyes piercing through the darkness of the theater and finding me, I feel a single tear roll down my cheek. _For you in silence, cor cordium_ , I think, tucking the ticket away, _I will come_.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m surprised by his choices. This is not at all the Elio I remember. None of the intellectual beauty of Bach here. These pieces will all be pure and raw emotion. I feel my heart race - I am not sure I can handle this. He’s not pulling any punches this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a playlist! I _highly_ recommend you listen to each piece as you read through, otherwise I'm just a silly young whippersnapper blabbing on about emotions in music you haven't experienced! (Also they're some of my favorites of all time so there's that). So, here it is my friends:
> 
> Prelude No. 5 by Claude Debussy - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhzeRTnn2lY  
> Romance by Jean Sibelius - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9G048GQNLJI  
> Milonga del Angel by Astor Piazzolla - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1kev-9fYi5Q  
> Etude by Alexander Scriabin - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOTToz5CZFQ  
> Ballade by Fryderyk Chopin - https://youtu.be/nW5po_Z7YEs?t=41s
> 
> Enjoy! Hopefully you won't mind the romantic ramblings of a classically trained pianist.

            “How on _earth_ did you get this?!” The ticket appears in her hand a few inches from my nose. I stifle a groan – I must have left it out on the bedside table last night. I open my mouth but don’t get a chance to begin my lie, “These sold out in literal seconds. These sold out so fast that the directors of the venue couldn’t get seats. These sold for thousands of dollars a pop in the nosebleed seats – how on _earth_ did you get _the front row of the balcony_?”

            Dozens of possible answers fly to my mind, and I search for the most plausible one. “An, uh, an old friend sent it to me”. Technically not a lie.

            “An old friend?” Her voice is laced with disbelief, “Who?”

            “You don’t know him,” technically not a lie, “I met him when I was in grad school. He’s a big name in the music community these days. Professor at Julliard, I think. Knows Perlman well.” Not a lie, not a lie, but not the truth either.

            She stares at me, and then stares at the ticket. “He must like you. This ticket cost him five figures.” I feel guilt settle like a cold stone in the pit of my stomach, _if only you knew…_

            “Would you like it?” The words tumble out of my mouth before my desperate heart can snatch them back, and I feel guilt of an entirely different variety seep into my veins. I’m trying to run without even meaning to, trying to build another wall, another careful construction to convince myself that I am happy like this, in this life, this way. I have grown accustomed to lying to everyone, including myself, and like Pavlov’s dog I instinctively push away any time those memories come from anywhere except the carefully curated and rationed packets in my mind. As she mulls over my words, I find that I want her to say yes, but I want her to say no too. I want her to crumble to dust along with the last fifteen years to reveal a seventeen year old boy in a villa in Italy, pretending not to notice me as he transcribes Haydn and practices Bach. This dream of a life has been fun, but I crave the reality of the summer of 1983, with all its pain and uncertainty. All the fear. God, what I wouldn’t give to have it back. A single hazel eye flashes into my mind, piercing through me. _Coward_.

            “I would be lying if I said no. But I can’t take this, not even from you, Ollie.” The ticket is back in my hands now, and I stare at it, watching the words on it blur slightly as I blink back tears, avoiding her gaze. Are they tears of disappointment, or relief? Fear? Shame? “But thank you. I can tell you really want to go, so it means a lot that you would offer it to me.”

            Her words settle around me as she moves to the kitchen to make more coffee before the boys come down. _I can tell you really want to go_. She’s right, isn’t she? Then why am I still running? Always running, so much running, god knows I’ve had enough practice. Running beside Elio in the early Italian sunlight, and then away from him for over a decade.  Am I ready to stop? What would happen if I did? My introspection is interrupted by two pairs of footsteps clomping down the stairs – preteens already, my god. In only a few years, they will be the same age as Elio was. The thought makes me vaguely sick. I pull them each in for a quick hug, then walk back to my room, tuck the ticket away in its envelope. Three weeks until I have to choose. _Coward_. You always were the brave one, Elio. I’m sorry.

*          *          *

            The cab ride seems infinitely long. I wasn’t willing to take the subway, not in this suit, and if I’m going to be sitting in a five figures seat, I’d better dress the part. Yet now, I regret my choice – at least the subway would give the illusion of motion. Stuck in traffic, dusk casting an orange glow on the bridge where we’re stopped, I feel hung in an infinite limbo, dangling between sea and sky, unsure if I am about to plunge down to the depths or be rocketed out into space.

            The ticket clutched in my fingers is slightly warped from my repeated grasp. I’m almost unwilling to yield it to the usher at the door of the center, who rips it in half and returns to me a stub. I flinch slightly when he does, and he cocks an eyebrow as if wondering if maybe I shouldn’t be allowed in after all. I muster up a halfhearted smile, a thank you, and hurry past, accepting a program from another usher who stands behind him, filling the hands of the hungry, wealthy public. So many people who are paying to feel special, to be one of the few, the elite. And me.

            I feel eyes on me as I take my seat, the implicit question on their faces – who are you to have a seat like that? I think of Annella’s nickname for me, _muvi star_ – I wonder if Elio remembers. To hide from their eyes, as well as the one staring off the cover of the program, I open it to view the pieces for the night. The whole program won’t last much more than a half hour – no doubt a disappointment to those who paid many thousands to sit in these seats. The symbolism isn’t lost on me, and I swallow hard.

            Prelude No. 5 (Bruyeres) by Claude Debussy

            Romance, Op. 24 No. 9 by Jean Sibelius

            Milonga del Angel by Astor Piazzolla

            Étude, Op.8 No.12 by Alexander Scriabin

            Ballade in G Minor, Op. 23 No. 1 by Fryderyk Chopin

            I’m surprised by his choices. This is not at all the Elio I remember. None of the intellectual beauty of Bach here – though I’m not familiar with them all, I know enough about music history to tell that these pieces will all be pure and raw emotion, with intellect thrown in as a tool, not an end unto itself. I feel my heart race, and my feet beg to carry me away from here – I am not sure I can handle this. _Coward_. He’s not pulling any punches this time.

            Time slows. I’m still stuck in traffic as people shuffle in around me, old women and men dressed to the nines crowding in as if this concert was for them. The murmur grows to a dull roar as more and more conversations join the hubbub of the concert hall, and I feel like I’m drowning in it. I think of the Italian oceanside, how it would crash against the rocks with a similar sound. I think of early mornings swimming. I think of a pair of young men who wore each others trunks and danced around one another, as if they could fool anyone, as if maybe if they tried they could even fool themselves. I think of one young man who made a choice, and then had spent the next decade and a half second guessing it.

            And then, I don’t think of anything. The lights dim to darkness, and the room falls silent. The pause is agonizingly long, so long I wonder if he is not coming, if this is all some cruel practical joke. Then, the spotlight slams on, and he’s there, standing before the piano, head held high and proud, with two beautiful hazel eyes blazing directly, unforgivingly, into mine.

            The room erupts into noise, the overzealous wealthy tripping over themselves to prove their sophistication, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t bow, and I don’t hear them. We are locked together in this moment as it unfolds as slowly as the shy petals of a rose. It’s the first time I have seen him since that Christmas. My god, is he handsome. Gone are the boyish charms of his youth, and now I see a man with the devastating good looks of a celebrity artist – who is the _muvi star_ now? – and the flickering smile of someone humbly aware of their talents. He has grown some, might be almost as tall as me now, and I can see the hints of toned, lean muscle under his perfectly tailored tuxedo. I see a glint of gold at his throat and know he is wearing his Star of David, my hand subconsciously reaching for my own throat. It is diverted to cover my mouth with shock as I realize that under his tuxedo, he is not wearing a dress shirt, but a blue button down I recognize immediately. It fits him properly now, and more importantly it works so well with the outfit I doubt anyone else notices. He must see, must know, because I see that smile, the one he reserves for when he had said something particularly clever, spread across his face.

            And with that, it’s over. He looks away, apparently as easy as if I were just another ogling fan, turns a brighter, wider grin on the rest of the crowd, and takes a set of easy bows. I feel almost hurt – how could he break that moment with such ease, with such casual carelessness? Maybe he didn’t see me at all, maybe the spotlight blinded him, and it was all just an illusion, the desires of my mind making me see what I wish to see. But then, as he seats himself at the piano, thoughtlessly flipping his coattails over the back of the piano bench, he glances back up at me, those hazel eyes glowing in the spotlight, just for a moment, before looking away once more.

            A pause, and the Debussy starts. It’s a simple, joyous prelude, one I am familiar with. He breathes new life into it, as he is famous for doing, painting colors across the keyboard with ten delicate brushes. Suddenly, I don’t see just the heaths of France but the blooming orchards of Italy, the warm sun on the ocean. I see the Danzing and N. and B., and Vimini, clambering carefully across rocks to see the waves crashing on the shore, her tiny hand in mine. And there, at the one moment of doubt within the piece, the one question amongst so much surety, I see a seventeen-year-old Elio, staring at me when he thinks I don’t notice, wondering, wondering, wondering…

            He improvises a transition, so that as the Romance starts, the audience doesn’t have time to clap, a flourish filled cadenza that reminds me of how Liszt might have played Rachmaninoff’s take on…. the Romance is simple, and sweet, and earnest. It’s the berm, it’s the war memorial on the piazzetta, a gentle kiss blossoming into a midnight rendezvous, and all the ‘no’s and ‘yes’s in between. It’s midnight in Rome, the world spinning as we stagger, drunk on our excess, and not just of liquor. And there, at the very end, as if I can hear Elio’s thoughts, I see the train, see his eyes and fragile frame receding behind me, see how I had to use all my willpower not to crumble right then and there. I have to do the same right now.

            The transition into Astor Piazolla’s piece is seamless, and I am thrown out of the summer of 1983, and into it’s aftermath. I see days of sitting alone in my apartment, staring at the few physical memories of him I had. I hear again his voice on the other end of a telephone line, small and uncertain, waiting for me to indicate how we are to proceed. And, for the first time, it seems, I consider what version of that hell Elio lived, where he sat and stared, what parts of his life flew all around him as an invisible shroud slowed and tangled his every movement. Did we ever weep together, locked in time with each other, without even knowing? Did he too weep by the ocean the last time we spoke, did we look out across the sea together and wonder how we could fix this _travamiento_?

            At the end of the Milonga, Elio finally pauses, allowing the final note ring into silence, and the crowd goes wild, clapping enough for three pieces worth. He doesn’t respond though, staring straight ahead. Is he avoiding my gaze? He reaches up and tugs at Billowy’s collar, as if needing to loosen the bowtie tucked under it. Is he too struggling for breath? Are we perhaps even now locked together in time? His face changes then, his normally expressive features going abruptly blank. Though surely not everyone is watching each motion and expression as carefully as I, the change has a palpable effect on the room, and the applause dies meekly away.

            The Scriabin is a slow boil, beginning with a writhing darkness before bursting into full fledged distress, fury, even. Could this be what I had seen in his eyes that winter break I visited Italy, those daggers of ice when I pulled away? Had I hurt him this way? By the end of the startlingly short piece I am physically trembling, wiping away one stray tear. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry Elio, I never meant to make you hurt like that, I’m sorry._ The applause is raucous, and he turns to the audience, standing for his first bow so far. When he looks up toward the balcony to acknowledge the audience there, I can see all the emotions packed into his eyes, boiling just as the piece itself did – can he see them in mine? _I’m sorry, Elio_.

            My heart grows nervous as he sits down for the Chopin Ballade. Despite its status as a classic of the repertoire, I have somehow managed to never hear it before, but I am positive that, given what has come before, Elio has carefully chosen this piece to undo me. His fingers hover over the keys for just a moment before he begins, and in that moment of silence, I feel all the moments between Christmas of 1983 and now coalesce into a point, this point, right here. And then, the notes swallow it, and I am done for.

            I was right. There is no particular image that I see now, except the image of the man before me laying his heart out on the stage for me, for everyone to see, and the knowledge that were one to draw out the lines of my own heart it would be a mirror image. The piece is built around everything that is contained by the words ‘love’ and ‘heartbreak’, and the wreckage of what comes after when those two words don’t say enough anymore. Fifteen years of remembering and trying to forget, fifteen years of reaching out for the other who wasn’t there, fifteen years of frustration and anger and sadness and yet still cherishing each precious memory and that lingering, eternal something, that … did one dare call it hope? All of that is in this piece, and as he plays through each feeling, each gesture and theme something new and beautifully agonizing, I feel my fortress shatter, Chopin as played by Elio Perlman dismantling it brick by brick, leaving me defenseless at his feet, alone in the darkness of the balcony. The final chords blast through the hall with passion unrivaled by any pianist before or yet to come, and the crowd leaps to their feet, cries of ‘Bravo!’ and ‘Encore!’ ricocheting off the walls like bullets, but I cannot bring myself to stand. I know if I try, I will fall to my knees immediately; the journey I have been taken on has left me too tired, too weak. He has not said a word to me, _for you in silence_ , and yet that which he has not said has cut away the skin and muscle and bone and left me just a beating heart, open and unprotected. When he stands, his eyes find mine after only a cursory glance across the rest of the audience, and I wonder what he sees. I wonder if he can see the silent, still tears that stain my cheeks from down there. I can’t tell – too soon, his eyes have looked away as he bows, and bows again, and again. The applause lasts forever, until he finally takes matters into his own hands, and exits the stage. It lasts a minute longer, the paying public hoping in vain for an encore, but he does not return. Slowly, the roar dies away, and people begin to file out of the hall. I still cannot find the will to stand – I have been pinned to the chair like a butterfly to a board, right through the deepest part of me. So I sit and wait, letting snippets of music, of memory, of pure emotion roll over me again and again, and through it all, staring at the place where he had stood, his eyes locked onto mine.

            “Excuse me, sir?” I jerk out of my reverie, looking up. Almost all the lights are out in the hall, and the young woman standing next to me is dressed not in a ravishing cocktail dress, but in some sort of work uniform. “I’m sorry, but you have to go now – we’re about done cleaning and have to lock up.”

            “Yes… yes of course. My apologies.” I stand shakily, wiping at my cheeks in case any moisture has lingered. I hurry from the building, program held delicately to protect the evidence of what happened this night. As soon as I step out onto the sidewalk, I feel lost – where does one go after something like that? When someone knocks down the doors to your castle where do you turn? The world around me looks almost unknown to me now, because the world inside me has been so changed. I reach out a hand to hail a taxi, to go home – _coward_ – when a voice both alien and unmistakably familiar interrupts me softly from behind.

            “If you leave now, you’ll miss the encore”.

            I freeze, still halfway out into the street. My heart is slamming into my ribs, begging me to turn around and face the voice even as my brain screams at me to walk away and never look back, warns that if I turn to look now, it will all be over. His voice is so much older now, has a deeper velvet weight to it that is somehow inherently sensual. I swallow hard. To speak or to die is one thing, but I can’t even turn to look. _Coward_. His voice in my head has already transformed to match this older man’s, and the accusation may as well have come from his own lips. I steel myself – for once in my god damned life I am going to speak. I step back onto the curb, and slowly turn to face him.

            He stands just outside of the open door of a sleek black car, leaning a casual elbow on the car’s frame, his other hand resting delicately on the top of the door. It is strange seeing him up close – he seems somehow more real in this moment than he has in years. Even on stage, despite the intensity of our connection, he still felt so far away, felt like he was on the other end of a telephone wire. And now, here he is, close enough to touch, every detail of his still youthful face vividly clear. “Hello, Elio”, I finally manage, my faculties returning to me only after a long moment of simply drinking him in.

            “Hello, Elio” he replies, and though the little jab is clear, I can tell he is keeping his voice carefully neutral, reigning in his usual laughing charm. How can he be so calm? “So, what about that encore?”

            “It seems like you pretty thoroughly turned down that opportunity.”

            “For them, maybe. But that concert wasn’t for them, was it?” I say nothing, unsure what there is to say. He rolls his eyes, ducks into the car, and reaches his long body across to open the passenger door from the inside. “I promise, no speeches. Come on.” He slams his door and watches me patiently through the windshield.

            Another turning point, another dare, another chance to speak or die. I glance over my shoulder at the street, at the taxis flying by. Then, in my mind, I hear a breath of the Chopin Ballade, and the question is settled. I walk around to the passenger seat, slide in, and slam the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! My original ending wasn't good enough so I thought of a better one which means an extra chapter! Probably shorter than this one was, but hey. I hope you are all continuing to enjoy, thank you so much for all your kind words and kudos! It's so encouraging to hear from you all, since I haven't written seriously in years. (Also, I'm new here so I'm not sure if the protocol is to answer to each one, so if that's the case I'm sorry for not doing so - I'm a student heading into the second biggest exam of my college career and shouldn't even be here right now.) Also, a quick shout out to EarlyCut for catching my name - it does indeed work, you're right, and not by coincidence, porque yo soy compositor(a) by profession which is why I know about these pieces in the first place. 
> 
> Please don't be angry if I'm not this quick to update next time - I'm falling behind on responsibilities and need to catch up. But, I have started on the next chapter (and maybe a bonus extra not-even-cannon-to-this-not-cannon-thing chapter) so it hopefully won't be toooo long from now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist - thinking about this literally kept me up at night so I finished it despite my exam. Enjoy - thank you again for all the kind words and kudos! They really do mean a lot to me.

            “Jesus Christ”. Though I immediately regret these being the first words either of us speaks since entering the car, I can’t help it, “You live in the penthouse?” He shrugs nonchalantly as the door swings shut behind us, shrugging off his coat and unbuckling his cumber bund as he slips off his shoes with his feet. His actions would telegraph almost childish haste if he didn’t do it with such grace. I bend down to slip off my own shoes, then walk towards the full wall of windows that make up two sides of his open layout kitchen, dining room, and living room. The whole of the city is sprawled out below us, window lights and lampposts like glowing lanterns of human life floating in the darkness. I point out towards the dimmer suburbia beyond, “That’s where I live.”

            It’s a silly thing to say, but as Elio walks up to stand beside me, gazing out towards the darkness instead of towards me, he seems to take it seriously. “I know”, he says finally, undoing his bowtie, and untucking his shirt, once my shirt. Change his slacks for swim trunks and he could almost be at home back in Italy again. Still avoiding my gaze, he turns and walks across the spotless white carpet to a gorgeous black Fazioli F22 and sits slowly at the bench, forearms resting gently against the fallboard. “I chose this apartment, so I could put my piano here, and look out over the city that way while I practice.” He laughs softly, a tired, almost ironic laugh, dropping his head to look at the keys, and I feel my heart lurch – his laugh has gained a deep bass rumble that it lacked fifteen years ago. “It’s almost like looking out the doors of the villa and seeing you in _heaven_.” I say nothing in response, not sure what to say, or if I could even say it. Eventually Elio looks up at me, meeting my gaze, and it feels like the first time all over again. “I would look out that way for hours while I was writing your encore.”

            “Writing?”

            “Yes. I don’t compose much, too busy with touring and teaching and such. But I made an exception.” He leans over to a small table to his right, plucking a thin score off a stack of books, switches hands, leans to hold it out toward me. I hesitate a moment, then cross the distance between us and take it from his hand. The cover is elegantly simple, off white paper cleanly declaring:

_If You Remember Everything_

_Elio Perlman_

            “Are you going to open it?”

            “I can’t read music”.

            “You won’t need to”.

            I flip it open to the inside cover. The title and composer are repeated, along with some extraneous details. But below that he has written in by hand _Cor Cordium, for you in silence no more_. “You can keep that,” he says, pivoting away from me and towards the keys, “I have it memorized. Are you ready?”

            I’m not sure what I was expecting – maybe more lead up, or something else entirely, but not this, so soon. I shuffle over to a nearby seat and sink slowly into it’s cushions, sitting bolt upright since I cannot bring myself to relax. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” A tiny smirk, knowing or perhaps bitter, and the piece begins.

            The Chopin Ballade was built around love and loss. This piece is built of them. In every note I hear his heart, I hear the deepest sighs and brightest laughter, I hear every moment of the fifteen years between us, and every moment of the six weeks before that. The simple, heartbeat opening paints in golden hues the moment I first saw him, the day he took me on a tour of the town and I realized that this young man was not just the professor’s son. It slips into the future,  retrospective longing and sadness and regret, slow, gentle chords like the futile reaching for that which is not. It becomes the delicate touch we use when cradling secret memories to our chests and praying we have enough kindling to keep them burning forever, peering into their flames and seeing _heaven_ , seeing the sea, seeing hazel eyes and skin and silent glances across the room, silent glances from trains disappearing over the horizon, books with inscriptions and shirts left behind and now the searing pain that these flames leave on our palms, fire burning through our arms to our hearts, the crumbling ashes of what we once were blowing away as years and years and years go by. The piece grows beyond the boundaries of the instrument, beyond the confines of what two men can feel, swelling in range and volume and intensity, the harmonies increasingly desperate, the melodies going beyond the capacity of the human voice in a desperate wail. Each note cuts through my walls, through my lies, and lodges in my heart, a live wire from his to mine, and I feel it all as fresh as if the cuts had been made yesterday. The makeshift bandages of twine and scotch tape that have held my shattered heart together are ripped away, and my eyes swell with uncontrollable tears as unfathomable, unmeasurable, uncontainable passion bursts from the strings of the piano, filling the penthouse with a haze of it, turning the glass of his windows to waterfalls that blur the world outside. There is nothing left of me – I am a wisp of smoke caught in the gale of this music that is really just a feeling, something trapped inside us both being released in a single, beautiful, harmonious flood. When he reaches the climax, he lets the final notes ring on and on and on, the tide slowly ebbing away, revealing the smooth and barren sand underneath. I bury my face in my hands, trying to control my ragged breathing so as not to disrupt the agonizing beauty of this moment. He closes the piece with a single, ever so soft phrase, a gentle balm upon the burns that his passion has left on both of us. And then it is done.

            We sit in near silence, the only sounds in the room our breathing, mine rasping and jagged, his heavy but smooth, like he just finished a run. Tears roll from my cheeks unchecked, tracing paths down the backs of my hands and soaking into my sleeve cuffs, a few dripping onto my knees where my elbows are braced. I sniff as subtly as I can, hoping illogically that he might not notice.

            “Why are you crying?” He knows the answer to that question, I know he does. It’s another dare, or perhaps this time a test, a single toe dipped into a pool to test its temperature, to see if diving in will result in a refreshing cool, or a shock-inducing ice. After carefully considering, and unsuccessfully trying to still the quaver in my voice, I finally say “It hurts to hear you say it. I always knew. I never forgot. But it hurts to hear you say it”.

            The silence hangs, contrast with the deafening emotion of before making it almost as poignant as the music itself. I dare not look up, afraid to find anger in that face, or worse, indifference. I hear the rustle of his clothes, know he has stood up. Soft footsteps on the carpet, and I worry he is walking away until between my fingers, through the wavering veil of tears I see his feet appear a few feet from mine. Another pause. Then, he gets down on one knee, the other used to brace his arm as he leans forward and takes my chin in gentle, piano-soft fingers. When he raises my face to his, despite my fear I cannot help but seek out his eyes. I feel a fresh swell of hot tears as I realize that, for the first time all night, those eyes do not have blades in them, but tears of their own slowly pooling.

            “Then let go”. He whispers. 

            Everything freezes. I feel almost separate from the world as slowly, something that had been long dislocated snaps back into place. Something bigger than just heart or mind, something that is both and neither, has made its choice, and in this moment I, whoever I am, simply wait to see what it is. And when time returns, like water from a shattered vase I slide forward out of the chair, dropping to my knees and collapsing into Elio’s waiting arms, wrapping my own around his waist, burying my face in his neck, and sob. I may still be the taller one, but in this moment I feel so small, tucked against him as I choke out tears and nonsense words vaguely shaping apologies, soaking the collar of his shirt, my shirt. His hands pull me into him, one hand against my lower back, the other gently cradling the back of my head as he lays his cheek against my hair, and though he is not wracked with the shaking sobs that I am, I feel his tears on my scalp. I have touched every inch of this body, and he has touched every inch of mine, and though there are fifteen years between us our bodies remember, fitting together as if Rome was yesterday, and today is just Rome’s tomorrow. I dig my fingers into his back slightly and breathe in his scent – new cologne, new soap, but still Elio, still the man I… I… love. Allowing myself to think the word makes my tears come all the faster.

            “Elio,” I hear him say softly in my ear, and then again, and again as he gently rocks me in his arms.

            “Ol – iver” I gasp, pulling away to look him in the face now, suddenly desperate to see him. His eyes are slightly swollen with tears but he is beautiful as ever. He meets my gaze for a moment, then drops them away as he hastily pulls a cloth handkerchief from his back pocket, wipes his eyes, and passes it to me. I wipe my face, hoping I look slightly less shattered than I feel, before reaching out to take his hand.

            “Thank you, Elio”. His eyes return to mine then, “Thank you for… for all of this.”

            He says nothing for a long time, his eyes just looking, looking into mine. Finally, he squeezes my hand, and releases it – I take a sharp breath of dismay – before moving his palm to my cheek, placing the side of his hand along my jaw so he can use his thumb to gently wipe away a stray tear.

            “Can I kiss you?” He asks, the words almost inaudible in their softness. I remember asking those same words and wonder if he feels the nervous fear that I did, the dreadful thrill that comes with the threat of ‘no’. If he does, he needn’t worry. “Yes please,” I respond, finishing the dialogue we wrote so long ago.

            He looks into my eyes a moment longer, then slowly leans forward. There is just a moment of hesitation, right before we touch, the breathless unknown holding him back. I make up the difference, gently, ever so gently, pressing my lips into his. _This is like coming home_ , I think, _this_ is _coming home_. I feel his lips mold to mine, feel the softest kiss fill the hole left behind by my shattered heart. It doesn’t last long, but when we separate, we are both breathing hard regardless, endorphins and adrenaline overloading our systems. He rests his forehead against mine, both hands on my shoulders now, our knees interlocked. “Better now,” he breathes, a statement not a question, and we both chuckle before he tilts his head to kiss me again, harder this time.

            I have learned from my mistakes. This time, I do not say no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! That's where my intended ending is - I'm thinking of doing some little "this doesn't work with this particular story but here's some little one-shot things that are in this particular fanfic-cannon" things, so if that's of interest and/or you have ideas you want to have addressed do lemme know! (I mean there are lots of unresolved questions ... but resolving them just didn't seem to fit the point of this story, ya feel me?)
> 
> Also, fun fact, though the piece Elio plays is currently imaginary, it soon won't be, as I am writing it right now!
> 
> Love you all, thank you for being so kind to me on my first fanfic since the ye olden days.


	4. The Chapter Will Self Destruct in...

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1RXd59qRd1s3no24VoMteLPG6_FJeE71U/view?usp=sharing

 

Only took me.... 4 months? 6? Pfft time is a lie anyway.

 

Performance updates later. It seems like my own personal Elio [in piano playing terms, not romance terms alas] is much as my imagined Elio might be and doesn't like to work for free. As someone who often advocates that musicians shouldn't work for free, I understand this - unfortunately, I am literally not allowed to pay him by University policy (price gouging yada yada).... so he may take some work. But I'm gonna get him, you wait and see... the piece needs him. And once it's recorded, I'll put it up here in a permanent chapter. 

 

Hope all is well you lovely people. Hopefully, I'll see you all again soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first fanfic since I was a wee lass so I would appreciate any feedback you might have. If you like it, there's one more chapter in the works, so let me know if I should put that together! I like keeping my chapters short so hopefully that's good and not a disappointment.


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